Morning Light
by bronzillium
Summary: His sense of authority and demand of respect no longer existed. He was a bag of bones with nothing but strong coffee and pills to help him through the day. He was alone. He was tired. He was dead.
1. Raindrops

**This is a fic I decided to work on because I fell in love with an idea I developed in the second chapter of another one of my stories (Lying Men Never Sleep). It draws from that, but aside from the first chapter - which has been mildly edited - it deviates into a different plot-line. Hopefully it's not terrible.**

**Rating may be changed due to events in later chapters.**

**Enjoy~**

**CONTENT WARNING; contains character death, suicidal thoughts/actions, and mentions of depression/self harm/self-injury/eating disorder/mental disorder**

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It was always raining in London. It never stopped, as if someone had set the rainstorms and sporadic drizzles on loop. At least, it always seemed that way these days.

Watching tantalizingly slow drops of rain travel down the window as they formed intricate webs of water, he sighed, a terrible sound that emptied what oxygen was left in his lungs into the still stark room. It poured so often that he could almost picture a giant ugly monster hovering dangerously low over the city, crying its massive heart out, intentionally drenching the commuters on their early treks to work or school with the sole goal of ruining common people's days. He wondered if anyone ever noticed the thing. Ever looked past the brim of their umbrella towards the beast and challenged it to stop its reign of terror.

Someone must have.

That person who did (he was sure the type was out there somewhere) mustn't be common. If they had the courage to stare up at the harsh reality of life and keep walking without letting it get them down, they'd be a hero. If they could harness the bravery to stand a little straighter and keep looking forward when everything around them was threatening to turn sour, they'd be a hero.

Heroes aren't common.

But there was no monster, really. Not out there. It only existed in his worn and tired imagination. His mind, crowded by self-pity and despair, exaggerated minuscule ideas when he was alone with the dangerous thoughts for too long - bent everything out of proportion until the world made no sense. Dramatized the simple things and numbed what was important. Twisted fact and conjured lies out of the dark things that lived behind his shoulders. It made him believe that there were actual heroes out there carving paths for other lesser people to follow. It convinced him he'd met one or two over the years when all that really exists on earth are common people.

_Common_, just like him and everyone else.

Staring out at the city blurring outside the window, he sighed again, softly. Nothing felt the same any more. The tears that reddened his eyes but never fell felt wrong. The stubble dusting his chin felt wrong. The shirts that hung too large on his deflated body felt wrong. Everything was off.

Rolling onto his side so he lay closer to the window, in the tiny shred of dim light that came in past the rain and fog and pollutants, Greg Lestrade wished that he wasn't so alone. Tucked under the thin covers, he wished that there was still another body laying beside him, pressed against him, providing much needed warmth to battle the cold. Closing his eyes for a small moment, he wished he was needed and cared for and loved and appreciated like he used to be. Those days were long over, though. No one else - except him, of course - had inhabited the flat in years. Not since the divorce.

Some days he wished he hadn't gone through with it in the first place. Some days he wished he'd fought for his wife back, even though she'd lied to him from day one. She was never loyal, even when he was irrevocably devout to her, always getting around behind his back when he was too busy sweeping the streets of crime to spend time with his family. Work always got in the way, no matter what you did for a living. In some relationships the time apart can strengthen the bond between a couple, fuel the passionate need to see each other again sooner rather than later. In others it shatters a person's existence, like jagged cracks tainted with blood spidering out on an old mirror, leaving them with a hollowed-out space where their heart used to be and half a mind to get out of the love business for good.

Business. Work.

He stopped going to work weeks ago. Probably already lost his job, decades of hard work down the drain. Replaced with a novice, no doubt. He couldn't remember his last words before he had walked out of his office and holed up in his flat. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd gotten out of bed for something other than to take care basic bodily functions. Not since the funeral.

The funeral. _That god damned funeral._

Three in a row. He couldn't handle that. Why did Sherlock have to be so selfish? He was selfish and _not_ common and _no__t_ here and _not_ a-

It wasn't right. Nothing was right any more.

Greg was getting too tired for this. Too old to keep losing colleagues, friends, _family._

When the news of Sherlock's death - _suicide -_ reached him, he had been in shock. Years before, when he'd picked the druggie up off the curb and worked hard to set him straight, he always dreaded that call; always feared the self destructive genius would finally off himself. It was everyone's expectation that he would go that way. He'd spent countless hours wondering what would become of the young addicts life, hoping, wishing, everyone was wrong. That Sherlock was stronger than that. He'd never expected something that brash these days, when things had actually started getting better after the arrival of the good doctor. Well, better in a personal sense. He wasn't inclined to kill himself on a whim anymore, though he took countless risks for the sake of solving a case as if he was teasing the idea of death, waiting for it to come to him instead of seeking it out around every street corner.

He'd changed in that aspect, even though he was still a danger to himself. Greg had taken to worrying less and less as the days passed, especially since the perfectly timed introduction of a moral compass neatly wrapped in good judgement and clinical kindness.

At the funeral he hadn't so much as shed a tear. He still hadn't, and he was starting to feel guilty for that. When they'd lowered the elegant black casket into the ground, he _couldn't_ cry for the sake of keeping up his companions moral. God knows they all needed something to keep them afloat. He did too, but he was the alpha male, the pack leader. He had to stay strong, even if he didn't have a shoulder to weep on waiting at home.

Now, when he needed some good words and a warm embrace, a spare life saver thrown his way, what did the (ex) DI get? An empty bed and a weak, frail body. He couldn't remember his last meal. He couldn't remember the last time someone had taken care of him, or he of himself. He couldn't remember the last time his own well being had been the primary concern. Years, probably.

Decades.

His entire life had been devoted to taking care of others. Not once had he taken a break. Not once had he splurged on himself or granted himself some form of luxury. Not once had he taken a deep breath before charging forward to take the lead when no one else dared stand to the challenge. Many called him a hero for that. He didn't buy it. Those don't exist. Only common people do.

Greg just couldn't handle this anymore. With no responsibilities urging him to be at his best, no work ethic pressuring him to get things done, he was letting himself waste away. At the rate he was going, he would be a pile of dry bones in not time at all. It was pathetic.

Watching the morning light grow stronger second by second, penetrating the soft haze of the fading rain, he rolled over again and squirmed his way out of bed. Taking a few minutes to gain his balance as he attempted to stand, the (former) DI set a slow tired pace towards the kitchen on debilitated legs. His joints protested with every step, strained and stiff from lack of use, and his temple throbbed. He needed an extra strong cup of coffee to start the day, and maybe a double dose of painkillers to numb everything for a while. Maybe longer, if he took enough of them.

Maybe enough to join Sherlock, wherever he'd gone.

In a way he supposed common men wouldn't be welcome.

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**Not too depressing right?**

**I planned on having the second chapter up soon, but I've lost the file and have to rewrite everything again.**

**Reviews would be lovely. Thank you~**


	2. Pills

**Sorry this has taken so long!**

**Rating may be changed due to events in later chapters.**

**Enjoy~**

**CONTENT WARNING; contains character death, suicidal thoughts/actions, and mentions of depression/self harm/self-injury/eating disorder/mental disorder**

* * *

Outside.

Outside, the brutal deaths of raindrops battered the windows, dripping onto the pavement bellow, never granted proper burial or honors for their service. Outside, people rushed to attend to the things that most called life; work, relationships, a cup of tea sipped in the company of a page turner. Outside, every living thing breathed. Existed.

Inside, one living thing exhaled. Inside, one living thing decided it didn't want to live any longer, wanted to cease existing.

Sitting in his kitchen, a half-empty mug of coffee cradled in his hands, Greg sighed. Perhaps today he would join the soldiers on the pavement. Perhaps today would be his last day; a pathetic end to a pathetic story. Like the swift deaths of pedestrians crossing busy streets, or mothers in mid-labor, or gardeners on rickety green ladders. That was the fate of common men, wasn't it? To end plainly.

Not like the heroes that haunted the monster in the sky. Those who died in battlefields and fell through the air, broke all their bones, and left empty places in lonely hearts.

But heroes don't exist. They can't.

Yet he watched the stillness of the black life-giver in his hands and for a moment wished they did. But they didn't, so he searched for the answers to questions he'd never asked in its motionless oceans instead. There he found nothing but a weak heat that did little for his aching palms. So Greg, lacking sense and reason and warmth, wandered over to the en-suite bathroom and opened up the medicine cabinet neatly tucked behind the wall mirror. It was almost overflowing with delicious treats; things intended to mend everything from tiny paper-cuts to throbbing migraines to upper respiratory infections.

He stared at them, wondering. Was he ready for this? Was the ache that clung to his back and curved his body into a shriveling shell full of black nothingness worth getting rid of? Was he that tired?

No.

Yes.

_No._

_Yes._

_**Yes.**_

Yes, he was. He was ready to leave. He was ready to shed that cold that burdened him and find true warmth, wherever it may reside.

Slowly he reached for a bottle. A small one tucked into the back of the cabinet, knocking an old pair of reading glasses and a rusty tweezer into the sink as he did so. It was one of his wife's prescriptions. With shaking fingers he uncapped the bottle. Three pink and green pills sat the bottom, tiny and insignificant. Greg emptied them into his palm. With what was left of his coffee, he downed them.

It was that easy.

He took a deep breath and plucked another bottle from the cabinet. One of his this time. Fat round things with little numbers etched into one side. He took them with coffee too. He kept going, bottle by bottle, one pill at a time, until his mug was empty and spots teased the corners of his vision.

A soft itching sensation wound through his bones and licked the base of his skull, made him feel light on his feet; numbed his fingers and wrists. His eyelids sank, fluttered, shot open. Death was grasping at him. Tugging at his gray and white hair, trying to rip out his scalp from the roots. It pried at the corners of his lips and stabbed at his gums. Traced his spine with nimble fingers.

With a shaking hand Greg pulled one last bottle down and closed the cabinet. In the mirror a jubilant smiling man watched him. Is that what it could do for him? Make him happy and energetic?

If so, perhaps this was worth it. He took the last few pills.

The monster in the sky roared.

Greg felt like he was falling.

He felt like a hero.

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**Oh look more sad things. So so sorry.**

**Okay, just kidding. I'm not sorry.**

**Reviews would be appreciated!**


	3. Under

**Sorry this one is so short.**

**Rating may be changed due to events in later chapters.**

**Enjoy~**

**CONTENT WARNING; contains character death, suicidal thoughts/actions, and mentions of depression/self harm/self-injury/eating disorder/mental disorder**

* * *

Everything is dark.

The valiant little soldiers that battled the window pat his cheeks, roll down his eyelids, catch in his lashes. Voices waver in and out, forming incomprehensible phonemes that tug at his last shred of consciousness. The sky turns into a large black nothingness. The monster has finally devoured the world.

Everything is quiet.

In the belly of the monster there is no sound. The shouting voices vanish and the rain that started as he fell is gone again. The emptiness consumes him and he's pulled under by hot volatile waves of nausea.

Everything is still.

A sirens light illuminates the cavern. It's cry becomes his pulse. The ground rolls forward.

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**More to come soon!**

**Reviews would be appreciated~**


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